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Ch. 2: Dragons
Back to The Men in Brown '' There were seven of them, seven men lying asleep upon a buried ship under the earth. They breathed, but did not stir, and their eyes were shut. All bore the faces of kings; four of them were giants, taller than the biggest basketball player Chris had ever heard about. They wore chain mail and armor, and strange high helms. All of them had swords resting upon their chests. They reposed upon treasure, and a cold spirit stirred in the gems, murmering sad frozen songs in the darkness. The tall ones looked familiar, somehow: their unbearded, age-hard faces, solemn and stern, they reminded him…of the terrible kings in the Caves of the Forgotten. '' '' Now all seven sat on seven thrones, and chests no longer rose, and they were unmoving in their armour. The walls around were like a hall of mirrors. And there were footsteps in that soundless place, and a man stalked in, and upon his finger gleamed a mighty ring: serpents of silver twisted around a crown of gold flowers, that one upheld and one devoured, and their eyes were green gems that shone like small lamps. The man was middle-aged, with old clothes of rough deerskin, black hair and beard flecked with grey, a powerful noble face and compelling eyes. There was a faint shadow of a white tree flickering within him, like a ghost. '' '' Like the voice of thunder the man’s voice sounded, ringing in the mirrored roof, speaking a single word: '' '' “Galadhil!” '' '' As one man the seven moveless figures gave a great gasp and heave of chest, as air rushed into lungs that had been still since before the Flood. The echo stopped. The sudden silence was filled with the heavy new breathing of the seven sleeping men. '' '' The man strode up to the centermost king. The eyes were still unseeing; though he now breathed he was still asleep. '' '' “Amandil of Numenor, awake!” '' '' The silent king upon his throne breathed sharply, but did not stir. '' '' “Valandil son of Numendil of the line of Elros, the King commands you to awake!” '' '' Upon his throne the ancient lord moved. The blank eyes stirred and focused. Muscles that had been still for twelve thousand years and more twitched. '' '' “Erellont and Falathir, Aerandir and Tharn, Nunien and Linos, the King commands you to awake!” '' '' The remaining sleepers opened their eyes and fixed them upon the King. And Amandil leaned forward upon his throne. The wakeful eyes bored into their waker. “And whom, then, is the King?” he said. Rusty beyond description was his ancient voice, and the heads of all the other sleepers turned to him. '' '' “The line of Elendil son of Valandil, to that has the kingship passed.” said Wayham Lane. “And last of that line was the kinsman of Noe, who by virtue of that ancient blood has lasted till this very year, and I was his only son. I am Wayham Lane.” '' '' “What of the King of the Earth, who was setting sail for the land of the Deathless? Where is he?” '' '' “None who step upon the shores of the Gods can again taste of death, and so he and all his warriors are cast into slumber in the Caves of the Forgotten: Tar-Kalion the Wicked, who would cast down the very Gods. And Numenor has fallen, cast under the sea, and all roads now bent; and mortal man can no longer cross to the Undying Shores.” '' '' “And the Road,” said Amandil, “where now walks the Road?” '' '' “The Road walks straight, as it always has done, and returns now to Arda every hundred years.” '' '' “And does Earendil also live?” Falathar asked. He was of the three shorter Sleepers. '' '' “Earendil is now among the Stars.” said Amandil. “We behold him at evening and also at morning.” '' '' “He sails no longer.” said Wayham Lane. “The Stars no longer sing. Their curse has come upon them.” '' '' There was a sudden crash. The Sleepers started from their thrones. All around them the mirror-walls began to shimmer. Splinters chipped off the thrones. '' '' “What is happening?” shouted Wayham. '' '' “The spirits of our guardians are freed.” said Amandil Valandil. “We are becoming unsealed. Soon we will be emerging upon the surface of the world.” '' '' “I wonder what the Middle-earth is like in these days.” remarked Aerandir, another of the sailors. '' '' “No longer in the middle, I would wager.” Erellont, the third sailor, answered. '' '' “I fancy we are soon to find out.” said Tharn. '' '' The mirror-walls shimmered out. Around them now was earth, close-packed as if pushed outward by an unseen bubble. Then the bubble too was gone, for bits of the earth ceiling began to come loose and fall down. The glass floor darkened into rough stone. All seven thrones shattered into rubble. They were in darkness. '' '' Amandil said something in Elvish. There was a crash of falling material and a hole opened in the wall, sudden and intensely bright. Outside the sun could be seen, bright but chill, illumining strange tattered rocks upon which small waves sighed and beat. A pale sea lay beyond. Out of the cave of earth stepped Wayham King. Out stepped the Seven Sleepers, onto the shores of the Baltic Sea, back into the living world. With a sigh the cave fell in behind them and was gone. '' Christopher woke from this dream to find his tongue stiff and thick with goo, his throat sore and his ears and cheeks raging. His head swam when he got up. By morning he had a full-fledged fever. It meant no school, but that wasn’t much comfort, as outside was a gorgeous hot day and he couldn’t go to the beach. The room floated in a strange, clear, yellowish haze. The world outside was dim and faint, and time hung in suspension, but his fever-paralyzed mind did not notice. When his condition worsened on the next day his mother took him across the valley to the hospital on the hill above Winsted. They drove up behind their church with its’ lovely sandstone trim, up to where a great yellow brick building, grand and decorated with white stone trimming and sills, emerged from a shelf in a high steep rocky height buried in pines. Behind it was a long ugly rectangular thing like a bad 1950s school. He could barely reel the few paces required without dizziness. The waiting room was cold and hot by turns, with the awful prickling unhealthiness of cold like being suddenly plunged down a waterslide of ice, dizzy and horrid. Then they were, after an hour or so, privileged to enter and sit in an uncomfortable crape-coated chair that made him colder than ever and was too short for his ankles. Outside they could hear nurses tittering and doctors guffawing: doubtless enjoying by security camera which patient was in most torment from having to wait before finally sending in a nurse with a weird cart to “take his vitals”. By this time Chris was barely able to notice anything; the haze around him was not merely yellow but black. A doctor came in—at least, he must be the doctor, for he had a white coat, but he might as well be an alien monster—and began making horribly cheerful noises as he checked the same things the nurse had already checked and asked the same questions Mom had already answered not just to the nurse but to the clerk out front, and beaming away then urged Mom to wait outside while he checked Chris. Chris watched with huge burning eyes as the doctor casually sprouted a tentacle to scratch his ear with while he chatted away with Mom. The echoing voices said something about delirium and mysterious red patches on the face and neck. “We’d like to keep him for observation to see if the symptoms lessen, but in the meantime we’ll put him on an IV and you can come back in a few hours when that’s drained.” said the doctor through the maws of a dragon, and licked his lips with a snake’s tongue. His mom only nodded tearfully. The dragon turned, becoming normal as he drew closer, speaking with that appalling cheery soothiness. Mom got up to leave. '' “No!”'' Chris screamed. “He is dragon! Don’t leave me with him!” '' The doctor paused, a curious expression on his face. “And what makes you say that?” he said. “Your eyes.” babbled Chris. “It’s in you. It’s hiding, just waiting to come out….I know you…''” “Fascinating.” the doctor muttered. “Fever sharpens his Sight. I thought he was just an ordinary, common little Christian whom the Enemies had picked up for no reason. But if they are up to their usual tricks and working with tools so feeble as to slip my watch, I must needs look closer.” He changed again, and now he was not only dragon-headed, he had more than one head, he had seven, and though Chris at first thought the fever was making him see triple, he soon realized it wasn’t. The sarcastic, jeering yellow eyes burned into his. “Look upon my eyes, little visionary, and we shall soon see everything you have Seen and everything you will See. Then at last I will know why my foes have been quiet all winter, and what strokes they are readying against my Master’s coming.” “W-who…are…you?” Christopher croaked. “I am what you guessed I am.” the other answered. “I am Dragon.” The room’s door slammed against the wall with such strength the doorknob punched a hole into it. Chritopher’s head jerked to face it. A tall sturdy oldish man in a brown leather coat over a plaid flannel shirt and brown corduroy pants stood in the doorway. He seemed to waver in the boy’s fever-ridden sight, and there was about him the oddest suggestion of '' blue''. Slowly and sardonically the Dragon turned to face the intruder. “Well, look who comes out of his hole.” he sneered. “You will let the boy loose from your power.” the man said in a flat, quiet voice. The floor creaked. There was a deep groaning from the walls, as though something tremendously powerful was encompassing the entire building. The dragon’s smile grew wider. “You really don’t know, do you, Arheled, just who you have faced. I am no bastard lesser son of myself. I am not even a primeval dragon. '' I am the Father of Dragons!” His hand flew out. The man in brown was slammed facefirst against the floor, though nothing touched him. “Do you really think a mere High Venda, whose mongrel substance is weakened with matter, can stand with impunity to an intellectual substance? Do you count upon the transplanted power of the Road to bolster you against me?” His hand lifted. The man was pulled out of the pit he had crushed into the floor and slammed against the wall. His face seemed doughy, as if it had been kneaded half out of shape, though no blood showed: his feet dangled helplessly two feet in the air. “I know who you are. I know what you can do, and what you cannot do. By your own hands are you tied!” Cracks snaked up the walls. Cracks broke across the ceiling. The man’s face hardened into shape like cement. The man in brown slid to the floor, upright. The Dragon’s hand was vibrating with effort as he strained against nothing. The man in brown took a step forward. Then another step. “I thought you knew who I was.” he said. “You…can’t…use full power!” the Dragon gritted. “There are humans around! You are violating your own precious Rules, Warden of the Road!” “I have…dispensation.” said Arheled. “Rules are not laws; to all rules are exceptions. Do not invoke the Rules upon me, Cornello, when the Earth lies slain beneath us and your Master walks incarnate. This is the last hour. This is a case of emergency.” His right hand clamped upon the Dragon’s outstretched one. Muscles like corded wires stood out hard as stone. There was a cracking of bone and sinew as the Dragon’s claw crunched and pulverized inside that mighty fist. Blood, black as oil, hissed as it dripped on the floor. “I will do what none save Turin ever did, and send you perforce to the Graveyard of Dragons!” Blue lightning lashed up Cornello’s arm, racing through him like fire. Blue flame vomited from eyes and ears and nose as if his head held a bomb. There was a boom like thunder. The Dragon collapsed, falling to its’ knees and then its’ face, cracking and crumbling until it had fallen into dust, and dust into mist, and the air consumed it, and the hospital was clean. The man who was no man sagged, his body slumping. Drunkenly he staggered to the bed and fell onto it with a crash. “The Dragon’s finger be out of you, child.” he said weakly. “Let the medicines of men begin their allotted work, and let all record of your visit be blotted from this place.” Christopher, who was already feeling clearer in the head, looked at him in concern. “Are you all right?” “I need to rest a minute.” the being said wearily. “He did not boast altogether in vain. To do war with a Black Seraphim is beyond me by nature, and even the Road could not have walked against him as it did unless this was, indeed, the hour for which the Valar forged it. Even so…have you ever tried to move something beyond your strength, and just barely done it? How do you feel afterwards? That is how I feel.” “Who are you, sir?” said Christopher. “I am the Man in Brown.” he answered. “I am the Warden of the Road. I am Arheled.” “But…I thought there were others.” “Eight others.” said Arheled. “I am their leader, for it was I who called them. Called them here, the Men in Brown, from many places and times. Do not question me, child, you could not understand a short answer, and long answers I have no stomach for. Even a short answer might well take days! Wait for your dreams. They will give you understanding.” “Who was…he?” “He is named by men Cornello. He is named among the Damned, and his form is a dragon. That is all you need to know. Do not look into the Dragon’s eyes, unless you wear the Helm of Hador on your head. Watch for the Men in Brown.” He heaved himself to his feet. “That should do it. He will not come near you again. He knows of you, but you are under the Road, and he knows its’ strength now. Go to sleep. Wake up well. Go to sleep, and in sleep dream.” '' The mountain lifted in great rough square crags to the threefold ragged crest, one a long broken ridge, then a sharp peak, then a more sloping one. Green forests, dark and misty blue farther off, rose dark green to the slopes and partway up them, till the mountain shrugged them off and the grey crags rose bare. It looked, all at once, like a knight’s helmed head face up against the stars, the peaks being chin and nose and forehead. '' '' Suddenly he was inside the mountain. He heard the hollow echo of other caves, and knew with a sudden horrible certainty that none of them joined on to this, that he was entombed in the very heart of the head of stone. The cave was huge, a lofty room of rugged sides and hanging curtains of dripstone. but little depository activity. And filling that cave was an army. '' '' They sat on strong graceful horses, all black as stone; and they wore strange quilted cloth-armor like woven cords that had hoods close-clamped to the head; and above these they wore helms, and spears were fastened upright to their saddles, and swords and war-hammers and queer maces were in their hands; upon their backs were upright wings, upon their red shields a white eagle gleamed: but the feathers were tipped with gold. The king at their head wore a helm fashioned like to a crown, and his mustached face was intent and fierce: but it was immobile, and not a man moved or breathed in all that host. '' '' There was a boom from far outside. Then another boom. Roots crawled in through a thousand fissures. Stone snapped and split, and fell with a crash, and a great ragged hole appeared. Through the hole stepped a single giant creature, and as it straightened Christopher realized with a huge shock that it was a tree, a great tree with white wood and dark green leaves edged underneath with silver. Then it shrank, and as it did seven men came through the hole, four of which were eight feet tall. And the tree shrank into a mighty black-haired king, bearing a sword like white fire and a hauberk of mail. '' “Awake, ride ruin, ride wrath, ride in power never known! For this day were you laid sleeping. For this hour you were made. Rise and waken, Boleslaw, by Poland needed: the King commands you!” '' Eyes flew open. Steeds sneezed fire, and in the eyes of beast and man red fire burned. Smoke rose from noses and breathed from mouths. The noble king at their head turned to look upon the man who had been a tree. He spoke, and his voice was old as stone and as strong: “Whom art thee, that dares awaken Poland’s king for Poland’s peril? Speak, or slay I thee!” '' '' “I am Wayham King, son of Finteine, in long line last descended from Arwen and from Luthien. I bear Narsil Anduril. I wear the Ring of Barahir. The White Tree is planted within me. With me are the Seven Sleepers. Do ye own me, Boleslaw?” '' '' The greatest king of Poland inclined his crowned head. “Thou art the King. The King commands me. I and thy knights are at thy disposing. What is the need of Poland?” '' '' “Chaos.” said the King. '' '' A quiver ran through Boleslaw. From all the knights came a sound like indrawn breath. Whatever fearsome meaning that word had, it was evidently understood only too well by the sleepers. '' '' “We cannot hope to win that war.” said Boleslaw in a hollow voice. '' '' “But we must fight it none the less.” Wayham answered. '' '' In silence, rank by rank, the mounted army turned to follow Wayham King and the Seven Sleepers as they marched back up the hole they had broken into the caves that wound up through the mountain. '' The weather was incredibly rainy and humid all through the rest of May. It felt like Florida. Cool misty air sheathed the green wet mountains, and it often drizzled, which was pretty much the equivalent of rain as it bedewed all the bushes with soaking drops and under the trees it dripped constantly. “Treeing,” the boys called it, to the sardonic amusement of Charlene. They spent half their time in raincoats. It was a week since the mysterious episode at the Pet Parade, and after that terrible dream of Boleslaw’s awakening Christopher had, to his relief, had no further ones. None that meant anything, at least. “So, like, who was this Boleslaw guy?” Stephen asked him one day. It was dismal and rainy, but the Memorial Day weekend was supposed to be gorgeous. The two boys crouched on the swell of stone under the bridge, pensively watching the falls. The lake had actually filled up, and the spillway was flowing again and the stream in consequence was no longer a trickle. “I looked him up.” said Christopher. “There was like about three or four different ones, and none of them looks much like the guy in my dream. It’s really annoying.” “Let’s go upstream. I’m tired of sitting here.” Above the bridge was a deep ravine the brook had torn for itself long ago. The old sawmills had hedged this in on the right with huge walls of mighty boulders one atop another, while on the left the wall was natural rock. Worn stones filled the bed, some eroded into smooth-edged sponges where weak spots were eaten out, others round. The stones were slippery with the damp and they went carefully. On the left a tan-pale building still abutted the bank, and above the bluff beyond stood an ancient house of mortared stone, older than the mills. The factories had been consumed in 1955 by the great flood, their site now filled with aspen and sumac, and a reedy swamp where a millpond had been. Beyond the natural wall, great rocks suddenly closed the ravine, the stream cascading over them. Behind them were bridge abutments: two sheer concrete walls, machinery sockets jutting from them, and a deep millpool, and a rising swell of stone, the stream pouring down a notch along it into the pool. A young man was sitting on the ledge beside the pool. His hair was wet, so he must just have been swimming. The boys stopped dead, not sure whether to run. He did not appear to have seen them. A long, sharp-featured, grim face, red hair going grey, brown corduroy pants and a brown hooded coat completed his appearance. Then he looked up, and all thought of running left them. Deep-set hollow eyes, burning a queer sort of brown sparked with red, stared at them. Then to their relief he gave a faint smile and the eyes dimmed, the queer appearance of red vanishing. “I figured I’d meet you sooner or later, Christopher.” he said. “How do you know him?” exclaimed Stephen. “Even if I were not already aware of him, I would have seen his Dreams the moment I looked at him.” the strange young man said. “I saw you at the parade, you know. And on your bus.” “You’re the guy with the cans?” said Chris. “Are you, like, homeless?” A dry amusement flickered in the brown eyes. “I was able to rent my squatted place in Burrville, but work never pays enough, and one has to live, and cans are just growing in the gutters, ready for harvest. A cash crop, I regard it.” “You know my name,” said Chris, “but I don’t know yours.” “It is hard to know what none have told you.” the other answered, and the sardonic light in his eyes was more pronounced. “I am Ronnie Wendy. Or, at least, that is the form it takes in English.” “Are you of the Men in Brown?” Ronnie’s eyebrows lifted. “So you do know of us, do you? Good, then we might actually be able to talk with some possibility of understanding each other. Have you met any of us yet, or only Dreamed of us?” “Um, just John Wimbledon, Old Nuncle Jimmy, and Ar-Arheled.” said Chris. “And Mr. Root.” put in Stephen. “Creepy Mr. Root.” said Chris. “Well, what else do roots do?” retorted Stephen. “Penetrate.” Ronnie said quietly. Chris squatted froglike on the rocks. Ronnie didn’t look very old—only about thirty, despite the grey in his reddish hair—and the boys somehow felt much less in awe of him than of the others. “Hey, um, Ronnie, who is Boleslaw?” “Some details, please?” “Oh. Um, I think a king of Poland. I dreamed of him.” “There were at least four. One of them, Boleslaus the First, was said to be in an enchanted slumber beneath Giewont Mountain, which is shaped like a helmed recumbent head, mounted with his knights.” “He woke up.” The eyes of Ronnie instantly changed, deep and intense as black holes, a red light flickering in them. Chris could not look away. “So that’s what Wayham is doing.” Ronnie said in a low voice. “He is summoning the Sleeping Heros to his army. He is collecting every legend of Europe. He is gathering the myths. But the allies of the Lord of Chaos are so many…so diverse…we can never find or fight them all, before they come against us all at once.” “Who is…he?” Chris asked shakily. The eyes of Ronnie were dark as tombs. A deep vast bitterness pulsed beneath him, below the surface. “He? Little hobbit, do you really want to know that? Do you wish your child’s hair to go grey, as mine is? Ask no more of him.” “Do…um, the Men in Brown have, like, powers?” Christopher asked, wanting to change the subject. “The Men in Brown are not all Men.” Ronnie answered. “They are a union of powers. Not all are here yet. Not all have meted yet. Even I do not know all their names, though I do know their tales: for I have not met them.” “Are you…safe?” Stephen blurted. Something like sarcastic laughter broke out of Ronnie. He said no words, only sat there unseeing on his rock, his face drawn in a harsh furrow, as that bitter laughter crackled among the rocks. To the boys’ terrified eyes it seemed as though the stone around him was moving and rippling in answer, and then they were scrambling madly up the rocks of the masonry bluff behind them. An old paved lot ran down to Boyd, just across from their house. The boys dashed out into the road, right where the blind curve down the hill was, too frightened to remember about cars. There was a great dark metallic mass bulging in their side vision. They had only time to realize the truck, and the world froze as they saw their death. The street between them and the car erupted. Out of the earth a figure rose, one hand uplifted, red light glowing out of clothes and skin. The car stopped on his hand, just like that, no impact or jolt, as if the kinetic energy had simply disappeared. Seizing both boys by the hand Ronnie Wendy dragged them across, as behind him the street re-formed and the car suddenly rocketed forward as the kinetic energy returned to it and its’ engine was able to move, the driver shaking his head as if he’d seen a ghost. “Yes, we have powers.” he said, and sank back into the earth. Memorial Day weekend was just as gorgeous as it had promised to be. The humidity lingered as the air grew hot, causing a wonderful soft laziness. Christopher was up early and so was Stephen. The hills were blue and misty, and the sun, halfway up the sky, glowed softly in the yellow vault. “Let’s go for a walk.” said Chris in a rather shaky voice. Stephen looked at him, concerned: his brother looked all in. “Mom’s not up yet.” was all he said. “Phooey. You know we can go to the end of the street without permission.” Mom coming outside at that precise moment to check the new garden they had just planted under the twisted old maple, Stephen soothed his conscience with the required permission and the boys set off up Hubbard. “So what happened to you?” Stephen said, as soon as they were underway. “Another dream?” “Yeah, pretty much like the first except creepier.” said Christopher. “I was up in the air, sort of like those zoom-in shots you see in movies, and the hills under me were all green and woolly and surprisingly like ours, and they looked a bit like Sleeping Giant does way down near New Haven, like a man on his back. There was a tower on one, and funny German houses down below. And then I was inside the mountain, in a chamber in the mountain, and there were great stone tables, and around every table sat an army of ghosts. Pale armor sheathed them, chain mail I think but they had these Charlemagne-like robes and jackets and things with heraldic figures on them. They had great swords, and maces, and huge flails and battle-axes, but I could see things through them. And at one table sat a king alone. He had golden hair, about down to his waist, but his beard had been growing so long that the hairs had grown into the rock. And then he lifted his eyes, and said to me, '' Boy, go and see if the ravens yet fly about the Kryffhauser.” “How’d you understand him?” said Stephen. “I think he was speaking Latin, like they were in the Boleslaus dream, but I understood him, and I was just turning to do that when I heard a voice say, '' They do not fly.'' And the ghost said, '' Who enters my domain? Who disturbs Barbarossa, Holy Roman Emperor? '' '' “Holy,'' the voice said with imperceptible derision.'' Wert thou holy when thou gave the ficco to the men of Milan? Wert holy when thou put away thy wedded wife, or when thou oppressed the Holy Father and put two false Fathers in the Chair? Emperor yea, but Holy never''. The ghost tried to get up, but his beard was stuck in the table and pulled him down with a crash of metal. '' I was pardoned! he said. Whom art thou, that beardest the Redbeard himself?'' And the voice said, Thy Crusade was never carried out. Thy vow is unfulfilled. Thou art not pardoned. '' And then he came forward, Wayham King, and he had all sorts of cool plate armour on joints and shoulders and such over his mail—what do they call it, partial plate armour—and his white sword was drawn, and he sliced the table in smithereens so that the ghost stood up, chunks of stone still dangling from his beard. Behind him was a dim host of armored men: you could hear them shuffling and sighing. And he said, I summon thee. I conjure thee. I awake thee. Fulfill thy vow, thy oath now finish, thy Crusade complete, Frederick Redbeard: the King commands thee!” “Awesome.” breathed Stephen. “That would be, like, so cool to see in a movie, you know, with all the robes and armor and stuff.” They had passed the crossroads with John St and the way they had taken before. Instead of descending past the factory to the railroad grade, they kept on up the street a dozen yards farther to where it ended. A high cliff of dumped fill and random debris towered above the grade beneath on the right. On the left the last house of the row of peak-roofed very old townhouses, solid and comfortable and settled under big old trees, stood on a slight rise, and a jeep track led up into the woods from where its’ yard ended. This the boys took, quickly in case somebody was watching. The jeep track clambered higher up the hill, rolling and lumpy and fenced by brush, bending round ever to the left. Jungles of waist-high mountain laurels grew bright green and tangled on the forest floor. Thickets of young birch saplings and a few white pinelings filled the space between the few oaks and scraggly birch and hemlocks: the place had been logged a while back. Chestnut sprouts rose in dark-stemmed clumps. It was very green and white here, with the dim soft sun and the dim warm air. They came to a tunnel of close-packed birchlings, and then an open area with bullet-ridden targets, the track bending left and climbing more steeply. Darker hemlocks overhung it. Stephen eyed the targets with misgiving. “Mom didn’t say we could go this far.” he said. “And I think we’re on private property.” “Duh, everything is private property unless the government owns it!” Chris scorned. “It’s not posted, is it?” “Well, no, but…what if somebody comes up here and starts shooting?” “We won’t stay long.” said Chris. “Just to the top. Come on, you sissy.” “Don’t you call me sissy!” “Then stop acting like one.” “You stop bossing me around, then!” “I’m older than you, I have a perfect right.” “Hmph. What if I went home on you, huh? You know Mom only allows us out here as long as we’re together. You’d have to come, too.” jeered Stephen. “Whiny, namby-pamby brat!” “Ancient books may break my hooks, but names’ll never hurt me.” sang Stephen. Chris promptly flew at him and the brothers started shoving and hitting. A thunderous echo from somewhere above them stopped the fight. Both froze, ears strained. “Someone’s shouting.” said Stephen. “Nuh-uh! That sounds more like a—foghorn.” “It’s on the other side of the mountain.” “Well, let’s go see!” shouted Christopher. They toiled in a hurry up the steep mossy track. Deep green hemlocks swept above them. Then these gave way to towering oaks and glades of hazel, blueberry and laurel. Patches of rug-like moss grew among the oak leaves. The slope lessened and they found they were parallel to a ridge-crest. The voice had stopped by this time, but as the boys hurried to the edge, it broke out again, and they ran farther uphill. There was no doubt now: a tremendous voice was simply ''thundering '' down below. There was a crashing sound as if a large heavy something was racing off. Out of breath, the boys looked down. The mountainside fell steeply for about a hundred fifty feet, old oak and beech leaning into it. The pale white-brown bleached leaves, the grey leaning trunks and grey rocks and green roof, made a peaceful sight, quite out of keeping with the trumpetine voice. “I think that’s a clearing, down at the bottom.” said Stephen. “Somebody lives there, I suppose.” said Chris a little dispiritedly. “Bother.” “Hey, I’m not going down there under any circumstances.” “Yeah, whatever.” said Chris. They plodded uphill a little farther, to where the hill made a stony brow above Boyd St and their neighborhood, and rested on the cliff brink. Highland Lake gleamed, almost on a level with them, through gaps in the trees. Chris heard a noise like heavy steps and leaned over the edge, pulling back almost at once with an alarmed look. The Wizard was mounting slowly up the slope on the left, bent double with the climb, marching heavily as if up a staircase only his eyes could see. He carried a long maple staff . Suddenly he looked up, and their eyes met. “Oh snap.” whispered Stephen. “We might as well be polite and wave.” said Chris as the Wizard clambered up a recess in the brink and turned toward them. “Hi, Wizard.” the boys said. Old Nuncle Jimmy leaned on his staff. His eyes had an ironic twinkle. “I hear you had quite a scare the other day.” “You mean that creepy guy? Who was he, anyway? Is he really…Brown?” “That was the Hill of the Road.” replied Nuncle Jimmy. “Ronnie Wendy. Eldest and leader of the Children of the Road.” “Why’s he such a creep?” “Ronnie has…seen things.” said the Wizard with a shudder. “Things no man can see undamaged. What would you be like, if the worst foe you could imagine had eaten your girlfriend before your eyes?” “Holy cow.” said Stephen. “That happened?” said Chris. “Yes.” said the Wizard. He dropped to a crouch on a nearby rock, resting his arms on his knees. “I suppose it’s time I told you boys a little about what has been going on here.” “Yeah, I mean, what ''is it all about anyway?” “There are four legends in these parts.” said Nuncle Jimmy. “One is the caveman who was seen in 1895, up the valley there, the Wild Man of Winsted. Then there are the Green Lady Cemetaries, one some ways northwest of here, the other 15 miles south in Burlington, said to be haunted by misty green lights and shapes like veiled women: both graves have sad tales behind them. There was the Witch of Winchester, who is also connected with a place named Witches’ Retreat or Knapp Hill, under which lie the Lost Caves of Colebrook. And there was the Leatherman.” “Oh, I heard about him. Wasn’t he some strange tramp dressed in leather, back in the 19th century?” said Chris. “He was. Never came this far north, though: only as far up as Thomaston. But the other legends…aye well. There is a secret that hangs over this little town, children: a mystery that you can feel as you gaze out over it or prowl in its’ hills. Those who live here do not feel it, save now and again as they look out over the familiar things and see them in a sudden and new light, a glimpse of that which those who are newly come and who have the eyes to see it grasp at once. The five stone churches that rise like fortresses in a half-circle along Main St, from east to west, like forts holding the North against the evil in the South. The decorations upon them point, and quite often to places of importance. Three markers on St. Joseph’s point W-NW, to where, exactly two miles from the milestone at the Methodist church, is a strange mountain, like a long narrow ridge, rounded and high. The crest of it is traversed by a faded path amid forest-grass, and ancient dark hemlocks sweep the ground in somber groves, and there are open glades of ash and hickory, curiously twisted by the wind. And at the midpoint of the ridge are two solitary rocks amid glades of their own, on which lie piled bits of rock and coral, and even coins.” “Why?” “They are altars.” replied Nuncle Jimmy. “The mountain—it is not a canny place. The moment you come out on the level crest, you feel it, you feel that this place is like no other, like it is solemn, like it is a temple. Temple Fell, it is named, and the Silent Place, for it is very silent there. Like a sacred place, but not a Christian sacred. As you walk along the ridge, your voice lowers, your feet slow, till you are whispering and you do not know why, and then you come into the grove, with the hemlocks like hooded priests and the tormented hickories rising like clawed hands from the grass, all leaning towards the center: and you see the altar, and you stop dead.” Both boys were listening, intent, hardly breathing. “This mountain is older than the land around it. It is to this place that the Road returns every hundred years, at midnight on the Eve of Christmas, and then the Children of the Road will greet it and walk it, and then it leaves, until the next Return. Last year, 2011, was the year of its’ Returning. But it has not left. This time, it remained.” “Why?” Stephen whispered. “Because of who else was walking in Winsted.” Nuncle Jimmy answered. “All during the Fell Winter of 2010, the Warden of the Road was calling to the Children, waking them up, teaching the lore. But others walked also. A man named Cornello, who used to live on Big Island. A mysterious old woman. A young man who was not wholly man. And Cornello, he was not man at all.” He fixed them with his eyes. “He was Dragon.” “You mean that really did happen, at the Carnival?” the boys shouted. “Yes.” the Wizard answered. “He awoke the ones that he begot. The Dragon-born, half human and half dragon. For the Warden had called awake the Children of the Road.” “Is that why so many weird things were happening last year?” said Chris. “Who’s the Warden? And what is this…Road?” “There are roads that walk the heavens, and roads that walk on earth.” replied Nuncle Jimmy. “When the Sons of God sang the earth into shape, they wrought the Road out of their notes to hold the surface of the world together. The Straight Road, leading on into the stars when the bent earth fell away beneath. It is the last echo of the Music of the Ainur. Its’ Warden steers it, and when he walks on earth he goes in brown, and his name is Arheled.” Christopher gave a convulsive start. “He called six children, one from each of the Five Churches and the Five Villages around Winsted, and the Road gave them power, and the Dragons and the Witch of Winchester schemed against them. All last year has been a long tense chess match between them, a move here, a battle there. One such battle took place upon the Long Lake itself—it’s named Highland now—about June, I think. The freak flood. Brooke Pond is the child who calls to water, and the Dragons held her captive on Big Island. She called up the Lake. The entire bay stood on its’ head and blasted that island from the map. Brooke was hunted, and nearly taken. But at this point another power entered the lists. “We know him as the Wild Man of Winsted: the caveman sighting, to be exact. What manner of being he is I do not know, but he serves Arheled, and he battled the Father of Dragons on the flood control dike, and in their clash the dike evaporated. I won’t elaborate on the moves and counter-moves of both sides; you would soon become lost, and some even I am not sure of. I heard this second-hand, you see. But I do know that the worst thing for us that could possibly happen, is here.” “What?” said the boys. “Have you ever heard,” said the Wizard in a cold voice, “of the name Chaos?” Cold running through him, Christopher nodded. “Who is he?” “The Ancient Enemy.” whispered the Wizard. “The Great Lord of the Darkness, walking in physical shape upon the earth. He sent his power out of him over the ages, pouring it into the world so as to stain matter itself. He is known as Chaos. The terrible thing is, that power could not return to him, and so he was overcome, and chained. But now the world has changed. Power no longer lingers in matter, but leaks back to its’ source. It did with him. All his strength is now inside him. His chains are shattered.” He went on in a grim voice. “Far under the earth the Father of Dragons prepared seven sacrifices, on Halloween night. Far under the earth the Children of the Road travelled to stop him, to go where even Arheled could not. And they fought their way down through the witches and the dragons and the walking dead, and they came on the fatal night to the heart of the earth, and Cornello was waiting for them. Frozen in time by his power they were forced to watch as six of their family and friends and one of the last living Stars were consumed body and soul to incarnate in body the Lord of Chaos: and they barely escaped. And on the earth it snowed fifteen inches in October, as Chaos walked again.” “But can’t the Road fight him?” “That is why it has not left. We have not been idle all winter. The Men in Brown are gathering, and the last of the line of Numenor summons the myths from the depths of the earth and the legends from the deeps of time. No, he will not crush us so easily.” “Say, Wizard, do you have any powers?” said Stephen, half jokingly. “To answer that, ask yourselves why you call me Wizard.” Nuncle Jimmy replied with an ironic smile. “What air breathes about me that makes you think of wizards? For as it so happens, the name was right. Children often see through to underlying truth. I tell tales. I call stories into being. I write books. And in so doing, I become a conjurer of sorts. There is my only power. In my imagination.” “I don’t think all that stuff is really true.” said Stephen skeptically. “I mean, it sounds like a weird tall tale.” “That is because you see things from only one thread, laddie.” said Old Nuncle Jimmy. “What’s a thread?” “Every person is a thread in and of himself. Each life is a string of successive events, much like a ladder with one stem and many rungs connecting it.” He drew a straight line in the dirt. “That’s one thread. The things happening from moment to moment, to one person, form a thread. See these cross bars?” as he added random lines. “Those are where other threads cross yours. Mine, and your brother’s, and the dragons, and Arheled. Some threads cross and are no more, people you never see again, things that happen only once. Some, like your brother’s, are wound up with yours. Threads in a story, laddies. In the great Story of Creation.” He heaved himself slowly to his feet. “I’d better get moving. There’s so many chores to do, with summer coming.” “What was that noise we heard?” “Oh, that?” chuckled the Wizard. “A bear paid me a little visit. So I thundered at him. Stuff from the Kalevala, I think.” “The what?” “Finland’s poetry. The fertile country of Wainola, fragrant meads of Sariloa…Ask old man Root about it sometime. He’s quite a singer. A mighty singer, indeed. Some of us are; old Wimbledon, for one. Well, lads, look after yourselves. Goodbye.” Back to The Men in Brown